By Leatrice Ynostrosa, Sage editor
My children have been cheated
by a world that won’t fully recognize them,
beautiful blonde strangers
who have more understanding of quinceañeras
than of sweet sixteens.
Society says they are privileged,
while their last name still holds them back
in everything but affirmative action.
They know so much of Mexican matanzas
and so little of block parties.
Their pale skin marks them racist;
they can’t relate to color
(cousins with skin from latte to espresso).
They dance cumbias and polkas
and stumble in their waltzes.
I weep for my children, stuck between races.
My husband’s blood gives them a family
that extends like supporting tree branches.
My blood marks them with suspicion,
born of their blue eyes.